Diamond Dust

The first place they looked into after the cafe was a secondhand bookship. Diamond, better for the intake of caffeine, explained his thinking. There was always a shelf near the door of out-of-date guides, yearbooks and catalogues. He picked off a 1998 restaurant guide and found the address of Dixon-Bligh's former establishment, the Top of the Town. 'See if this gets your juices going, Dave. ''The welcome is warm, the cooking classy at this easy-to-miss haven towards the top of the High Street. Edward Dixon-Bligh recently took over after a career of catering for the top brass in Royal Air Force establishments across the world. The menu reflects his international pedigree, with chowders, cassoulets and pestos, terrine of pork knuckle with foie gras, cinnamon-spiced quail with cardomom rice and fine green beans and pan-fried salmon with sarladaise potato and horseradish cappuccino sauce. Desserts include Thai coconut with exotic fruit sorbets. A fine cellar, mainly French and New World, is expertly managed by Dixon-Bligh'spartner, Fiona Appleby, who is pleased to advise.''

'It's probably a McDonald's now,' Stormy said.

'Can't get more international than that.'

But it was no longer in business as a restaurant. They found a body-piercing studio where the Top of the Town had been. A window filled with tattoo-patterns and pieces of metal designed to be inserted into flesh. The shaven- headed, leather-clad receptionist almost fell off her stool when the two middle-aged detectives walked in. She thought their generation wasn't privy to the charms of pierced nipples and navels.

Diamond confirmed the impression. He explained he was only interested in the former owners.

'Them? They blew out of here ages ago. They split up, didn't they?'

'What do you do with the mail?'

'It stopped coming.'

'They must have left a forwarding address.'

'The woman has a cottage at Puttenham. We used to send stuff there.'

'Is that far?'

'Take the A31 on the Hog's Back. You'll see the sign.

It's about three miles.'

'Do you have a note of the address?'

'I remember it. Duckpond Cottage.'

'And you think she's still there?'

'Don't bank on it, mister. Are they in trouble, then?'

'It's just an enquiry. Why do you ask?'

'Cos you look like the police.'

'It's personal.'

Stormy said with a beam across his tomato-red face, 'You can't tell a book by its cover.'

Out at Puttenham they found Duckpond Cottage on its own at the end of a rutted track that Diamond refused to drive along. The place wasn't a picture-postcard cottage. It was built, probably in the nineteen-sixties, of reconstituted stone slabs that had acquired patches of green mould. But efforts had been made with the garden and the paintwork was recent. No one answered when they rang the doorbell. 'Par for the course,' Stormy said.

Through the letter box a few items of mail were visible inside.

Everyone in a village is supposed to know everyone else's business. At the nearest house a small, elderly man in a cap was standing in his doorway before they reached it.

'Who are you, then?' he piped up.

'Enquiring about your neighbour, Miss Appleby. Does she still live at Duckpond Cottage?'

'Why - has she gone missing?' He was more interested in asking questions than answering them.

It seemed she hadn't moved away.

'You're not from the council, about the drainage? Shocking, the state of that lane.'

'She doesn't appear to be at home.'

'Gone away, hasn't she?' Now there was a note of certainty in the voice, even if it ended as yet another question.

'Did she tell you?'

'I may be old, but my eyes are all right. I saw you prowling around, didn't I?'

'You did.'

'She hasn't been at home for the past three weeks.'

'As long as that?'

'Easily.'

Diamond was not entirely convinced. 'We looked through the letter box. I wouldn't say there's three weeks' junk mail on the carpet.'

'That's because someone comes in.'